The houses are like palaces;
their classically modern architecture, their irreproachable paint, their
varnished doors and well-scoured brasses, fill with joy the city fathers
and every lover of progress. The city is neat, orderly, salubrious, full
of light and air, and resembles Paris or London. There is the Exchange!
It is superb--as fine as the Bourse in Paris! I grant it; and, besides,
you can smoke there, which is a point of superiority.
Farther on you observe the Palace of Justice, the bank, etc., built in
the style you know well, adored by Philistines of every land. Doubtless
that house must have cost enormously; it contains all possible luxury
and comfort. You feel that the mollusk of such a shell can be nothing
less than a millionaire. Permit me, however, to love better the old
house with its overhanging stories, its roof of irregular tiles, and
all its little characteristic details, telling of former generations. To
be interesting, a city must have the air of having lived, and, in a
sense, of having received from man a soul. What makes these magnificent
streets built yesterday so cold and so tiresome, is that they are not
yet impregnated with human vitality.
Leaving the new quarter, I penetrated by degrees into the chaos of the
old streets, and soon I had before my eyes a characteristic, picturesque
Hamburg; a genuine old city with a medieval stamp which would delight
Bonington, Isabey or William Wyld.
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